Should
by LordQuidditch
Summary: After his encounter with Wormtail and the Dementors at the end of his third year at Hogwarts Harry makes a decision. He chooses to be happy and carve a path that will allow that, his friends by his side. He wants to change his destiny and be a 'normal' wizard. But since when has 'normal' ever fit in a sentence with Harry Potter? AU
1. Prologue: Difference

**Disclaimer:** **J. K. Rowling is the rightful owner of** _ **Harry Potter**_ **and all associated characters. I just** _ **Filch**_ **them occasionally and I always put them back where I found them - I promise, I do! Well, most of the time … HAHA - FILCH, GEDDIT? Did I make a funny? Nope, didn't think so.**

 **Nor do I own any references to films, books, songs or any other copyrighted works that may appear in this fanfic.**

 **Anyway … moving on.**

 **Summary:** **After his encounter with Wormtail and the Dementors at the end of his third year at Hogwarts, Harry chooses an alternative path - the path of life … life like never before … happy life.**

 **A/N:** **Yes, I know. I'm very naughty. I shouldn't really be writing this right now, not after I made that promise to just concentrate on one story and build my works around it - but here I am. This is just a little plot bunny that hit me a few days ago, and it quickly evolved into a full-sized boxing hare. Hopefully, I can do it justice.**

 **Chapter Warnings:** **Strong language, flashbacks, and a bit of violence.**

* * *

 _There was a terrible snarling noise. Lupin's head was lengthening. So was his body. His shoulders were hunching. Hair was sprouting visibly on his face and hands, which were curling into clawed paws. Crookshanks' hair was on end again; he was backing away._

 _As the werewolf reared, snapping its long jaws, Sirius disappeared from Harry's side. He had transformed. The enormous, bear-like dog bounded forward. As the werewolf wrenched itself free of the manacle binding it, the dog seized it about the neck and pulled it backward, away from Ron and Pettigrew. They were locked, jaw to jaw, claws ripping at each other._

 _Harry stood, transfixed by the sight, too intent upon the battle to notice anything else. It was Hermione's scream that alerted him._

 _Pettigrew had dived for Lupin's dropped wand. Ron, unsteady on his bandaged leg, fell. There was a bang, a burst of light - and Ron lay motionless on the ground. Another bang; Crookshanks flew into the air and back to the earth in a heap._

 _"Expelliarmus." Harry yelled, pointing his own wand at Pettigrew; Lupin's wand flew high into the air and out of sight. "Stay where you are!" Harry shouted, running forward._

 _Too late. Pettigrew had transformed. Harry saw his bald tail whip through the manacle on Ron's outstretched arm and heard a scurrying through the grass._

 _He had escaped._

"AH!"

Harry woke in a pool of sweat, his forehead dripping. His breath was heavy and panting, and his body glistened in the dark. This being the third time he had the dream in a week, he went over to the window, and sat down gently, picking up a piece of paper and a pen.

 _It happened again tonight. It's the same dream, every night. Dreams about Voldemort would be more fun. At least they would break up the monotony._

 _I still can't believe Pettigrew managed to escape. It shouldn't have been possible, and now the rat's cost Sirius his freedom - again._

 _What would Sirius say? What would the twins say? Or Ron, or Hermione? 'Don't let it get to you, Harry. It's not your fault.'_

 _Maybe it is. Maybe it isn't. But it's not going to happen again. He's ruined our lives enough._

He laid it down on top of a wad of parchment and scraps, all of them with the almost identical writing on.

Harry got back into bed and curled up, ready to sleep.

"It's not going to happen again," he muttered. "It's not going to happen again."

* * *

"Harry! Wake up - it's eight o'clock!"

The shout came unsuspected to a lightly dozing Harry, who practically leapt out bed to get and dressed, and he headed downstairs quicker than ever before.

"Sorry, Aunt Petunia," he said once he'd reached the bottom of the stairs.

"Here," said Petunia, giving him a pan and some bacon and sausages. "The eggs, black pudding, mushrooms, beans and tomatoes are on the side in the kitchen. Get it ready as quickly as you can - you know what to do."

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry said as he reached for the ingredients.

Moments later, the sounds and smells of sizzling bacon filled the kitchen. Harry got out three plates and a bowl.

"And don't burn the toast this time!"

"No, Aunt Petunia."

He piled rashers onto two of the plates, and added the rest in huge portions for the first - the second with about half the amount of the first. On the other plate he set a few slices of bread, and covered the plate with salads and balsamic vinegar.

"Done, Aunt Petunia!" he called to the bony woman, carrying through the three plates - one in each hand and the other on his right forearm - to the dining room.

"Thank you, Harry," she said, taking the meals and setting them down on the table. "I'll just go and wake Vernon and Dudley."

"No problem," Harry replied, going back to the kitchen and getting out some cereal, eating it in double quick time.

"Vernon! Dudley! Breakfast!"

From upstairs came the sounds of two beached whales climbing precariously out of bed. Well, that was a little on the unfair side, really. Although Vernon was still as fat and blubbery as ever, his son had trimmed up considerably since Harry had last seen him.

Dudley now stood at around 5'8", and had lost a considerable amount of weight. Or rather, converted it into muscle. He wasn't massive, but he had certainly lost his puppy fat and developed a strong and muscular body.

As the two made their way downstairs and into the dining room where their breakfast was, Harry - having satisfied his hunger with cereal - heard the clashing noise of mail through the letterbox.

Quickly yelling he'd get it, he picked it up off the floor and ripped it open with a letter opener, carrying both the envelope and the letter opener into the dining room.

"It's from Aunt Marge," Harry explained, handing it to Vernon. "She says she can't make it - Ripper's ill and Colonel Fubster's on holiday, so he can't look after the dogs."

"Thank you," Vernon grunted. "Shame. I was looking forward to swindling some more presents out of her. How much did she give us last year, Dudders? Around three hundred pounds worth?"

"Sounds about right, Dad," replied Dudley, munching his smaller breakfast portion. "But, if I'm really honest, it's good not to have her here this year."

"She can be a little overbearing sometimes, yes," Vernon agreed grudgingly. "But she's family after all."

"Family that can't stop mooning over a certain retired military colonel - unrequitedly, at that," Petunia stated. "And can't stop aggravating us in some way or another at every visit."

She looked pointedly at Harry.

The group sat in silence for a while, until - unable to wait any longer - Harry broke it. "Uncle Vernon - do you mind if I go for a walk? I just felt like getting out of the house for a while."

"Go ahead. Just don't come back too late, okay? We can't have you missing out on any meals, you're skinny enough as it is."

Harry nodded, and, putting on his battered trainers, walked to the door and opened it carefully.

"Hey, Harry!" Dudley shouted, struggling with his own shoes. "Mind if I join you?"

"Free country … supposedly."

"Dudley … I don't quite know how to say this - but why are you carrying around a boom box?" Harry asked his cousin a couple of minutes later.

"I always take it with me when I do exercise," Dudley said, as if that immediately explained it.

"Exercise?"

Harry was bewildered.

"You know … running, push ups - that sort of thing," Dudley said in a slightly mocking tone. "You do it to get fitter. How do you think I lost so much weight?"

"Since when did you work out?" Harry clarified.

"Since I joined the Rugby Union and Rugby Sevens teams at Smeltings," he explained. "So … about ten months ago, I suppose. They said if I wanted to make the first team, or even the bench, I'd have to get in shape. Boxing helped, but I've stopped that now, so I've got a regime worked out for non-training days."

"You play rugby?" Harry asked.

"Yep," Dudley replied proudly. "Started off as a prop, but since I've lost weight I've played mostly as a centre-half."

Harry raised his eyebrows, since, having watched the occasional rugby match with Vernon, he saw a huge difference in the positions. Props were large and bulky, designed only to steamroller through other players, while centre-halves combined power with speed to punch big holes in defences.

"I've been invited to play for Surrey Under-15s next season, you know," Dudley said.

"Congratula-"

"Ah!"

The cry came from around the street corner, and the pair sprinted round. There, on the pavement, they saw a small, fair-haired boy with his head ground into the dirt, held down by four or five larger boys.

"Oi! Get off him!" Dudley shouted, dropping his boombox and shoving the nearest one forcefully. Harry went for one of the others holding the kid down, and swung.

A loud crunch followed as Harry's fist collided with the boy's cheek. He couldn't tell if it was his hand or the boy's jaw, but still felt satisfied when he send the boy reeling.

Harry's head snapped to the side and blood poured from his broken nose. He fell with a thud to the floor, and saw Dudley being jumped by another two.

He lashed out with his left foot, hitting soft flesh and bringing a bully to his knees as he jumped up and connected with a vicious uppercut.

Dudley threw one of the ones on him off, and jabbed another, his fists reigning down on the boy. Harry rushed over and pulled the other down to the floor, grabbing him and punching as hard as he could.

They rolled around for about a minute before Harry got up, and kicked him once in the ribs for good measure, sending the boy scarpering.

"Yeah, you'd better run, Piers!" Dudley yelled after the bullies' retreating backs. "Bastard!"

Bruises already covered Dudley's face, but he was smiling nonetheless. "Hey, you alright, kid?"

The boy they had seen on the floor looked up, three large gaps in his teeth, and dried blood was splattered across his swollen and cut face. "Shit!" exclaimed Dudley. "Ewan?"

The boy - Ewan - groaned. "How bad is it?"

"Looks like you went to Ireland and back with a constantly exploding bomb in your face," Dudley remarked. "You look pretty fucked up, mate."

Ewan groaned again. He winced, trying to get up. "As long as I look pretty something, that's alright, I suppose. Who's your friend, D?"

Dudley had forgotten all about Harry. "Oh, this is my cousin Harry. Scrawny little bugger, but from the looks of it, he knows how to handle himself. Lives up in Scotland."

That wasn't quite true, but it wasn't far off. "Harry, meet one of my best friends, Ewan Clane, scrum-half at Smeltings."

The pair helped the struggling Ewan to his feet. "So what brought all this on, then?"

Ewan chuckled, before wincing again and clutching at his throbbing head. "Piers caught me with Gordon's ex - you know, Louise, the one Piers fancies - behind the wall at Waitrose."

Dudley whistled lowly. "Well that would do it," he said. "Nice job, mate."

Seeing Harry's confused look, he clarified. "Blonde, 100m county champion, blue eyes, big tits, nice arse, long legs …"

"She's hot, then," Harry said, eyes wide in surprise. "Well done."

Ewan smiled and winked. "Yeah, well … Piers went and told Gordon's mates, and they told him, so they tried to get me to back off. Or maybe back out is a better term."

"No fucking way," said Dudley, stunned. "You mean …"

"Nah, I'm just joking," Ewan's face split into a wide grin, which turned quickly into a grimace. "You know my mum would cut my bollocks off and hang them from the roof of the house if I did it before it's legal."

Dudley chuckled. "True. Your dad would probably give you a tenner though, and a pack of rubbers to go with it."

"Probably. Hey, d'you mind helping me home? My leg's a bit fucked, you know?" he looked down at the ripped skin and flesh on his right leg. The pair nodded, and each swung an arm over their shoulders as they limped him away, carrying the boom box between them.

Two hours or so later, after a little gentle administration of ice-packs and tape, the two cousins strolled home from Ewan's house.

"So, how long have you and Piers hated each other for? Last I knew, you were best mates," said Harry. "What changed?"

Dudley's face soured. "Bastard stole my girlfriend and humiliated me in public six months ago. Had four fights with him in school and twelve outside school since then."

"Sixteen fights?"

"At least," Dudley nodded. "That only counts full-blown ones, not confrontations. If it did, the number would be into well into the hundreds."

"Bloody hell," Harry said.

"Yeah," said Dudley. "It's a lot, I know, over such a small thing."

"Actually that's not what surprised me, 'D'."

Dudley looked at him curiously, not sure whether to be offended or not - probably, though.

"I didn't know you could say such big words. _Confrontations_ \- that's a long one."

Yep, definitely offended. "You cheeky bastard. I'll have you know," Dudley said, putting on a fake pompous air and wagging his finger at Harry. "That I've got the thirtieth highest mark in my year - out of hundred, no less."

"God, your school's full of thickos then, if you're thirtieth," Harry joked. "But your lying skills - sorry, I meant 'acting' - I must say have deteriorated. Last year, I might even have considered the possibility."

"Bite me."

"I try not to judge," Harry said, raising his hands and backing off a pace. "But that's kind of a weird fetish …"

"Hey! You've got problems, Harry," retorted Dudley.

"Like?" Harry asked amusedly.

"Like screaming out in the night."

Harry paled slightly. Then his grin resurfaced. "I can't help it if beautiful women come into my room and jump me, now can I?"

Dudley sighed and shook his head exasperatedly. "You're insufferable - you know that, don't you?"

Harry winked, and said proudly, "That's me, alright."

"Mum! We're back!"

Petunia came slowly into vision as Dudley slammed the door to the house. _Some things will never change_ , Harry remarked to himself.

"Dudders, could you come with me, please? I'm just going shopping."

She gave Harry a pointed look, and subtly jerked her head in the direction of the living room, where he could hear low voices.

"Um … okay, Mum," Dudley said, looking at Harry in askance. He shrugged.

Petunia grabbed her son by the shoulder and wheeled him back out of the door. "What happened to your face, Dudders?" she asked concernedly outside, muffled by the door.

Harry walked into the next room, and saw a sight he had not expected. On the sofa sat his bloated uncle, a dark wood case about a metre long on his lap. Behind him stood Arthur Weasley, and beside him the twins and Ron, along with his trunks.

"Harry!"

"Ron! Fred! George! Mr. Weasley?"

Arthur looked at him sombrely. "We should leave you two to it. We'll talk to you when we leave, okay?"

With that, he and his three sons left the room.

"Harry, sit down, please. I need to talk to you."

"Okay?"

Vernon handed him the box. "This was my great-uncle's. I know we haven't really treated you the best, or been the kindest to you, but I want you to have it."

Harry flipped open the box. Inside, heavily wrapped in velvet casing, was a long, sleek rifle, with an iron butt and trigger, and beside it lay a two-foot bayonet, with another long box alongside that..

"You see, my great-great-uncle Thomas was an infantryman in the British Army. He fought under Sir Gerald Graham in the Mahdist War as a Private in the 42nd Highland Regiment of Foot - the Black Watch," Vernon said. "On the night of March 12 the British formed an encampment, not far from Osman Digna's positions. From around 1 o'clock until dawn, Mahdist riflemen approached the camp and opened fire, but their shooting was imprecise, and they inflicted few casualties."

"At dawn, the artillery was brought to bear against the Mahdist skirmishers and they were driven back. The infantry then formed into two infantry squares each of brigade-size and advanced. One square was commanded by Colonel Davis, with General Graham, and the other by Colonel Buller. A scouting party discovered that the main body of the Mahdist force was hidden in a nearby ravine, whereupon General Graham ordered the Black Watch to charge to clear those Mahdists out, leaving a wide gap where they had been stationed in the square. A sudden onslaught of Mahdists rushed into this gap."

"The Black Watch found themselves under intense attack from the Sudanese. The square was flooded with a rush of tribesmen and a brutal hand-to-hand fight resulted. The Black Watch eventually won the contest, driving the Sudanese out, and reforming their square."

"Finding themselves in danger of being cut off, the British units fell back in disarray but were quickly reformed in good order. The Mahdist advance was halted by volleys from the other square, which had survived the attack, and by dismounted cavalry units that had not been engaged until then. The concentrated flanking fire they inflicted caused huge casualties among the Mahdists, who were forced to retreat."

"The British units then reformed, and resumed their advance, driving the shaken Mahdists out of the ravine and inflicting more casualties on them as they fled."

"As a result of his participation in the action, he was awarded the Victoria Cross for bravery - one of only six known recipients of the medal in the Black Watch. About twenty years ago, on request of the Black Watch Museum, we gave his VC to the museum as a display."

Vernon wiped a tear from his ear. "This was his Snider-Enfield rifle. When he left the Army, he 'liberated' it from the stores, and carried it home. When he died childless, he left it to my grandmother - his sister. Since then it has been passed down and cherished."

Vernon sighed.

"From what I've heard about your world, this Voldemort bloke killed your parents. I won't pretend I was friends with them. I never was. But Petunia … she never got over her treatment of your mother. She'd want you to avenge them."

"I may not see eye to eye with many of your kind, but that doesn't mean they're all bad. But, considering how backwards they sound, technology-wise," Vernon continued, mumbling something about 'stupid weirdo redheads'.

Harry chuckled weakly. "Understatement of the century, that."

Vernon smiled wryly. "But considering that, it wouldn't surprise me if they haven't prepared for the weapons we have, or what we can do with them, and from I can gather this arsehole would be ashamed as all hell if he were to be hit with a round from one of these."

He patted the rifle gently. "If he comes back again, or any of his followers, I've got one thing to ask of you."

"What?"

Vernon smirked. "Make sure you kill the bastards - preferably with a camera handy to take a few pictures."

Harry snickered lowly.

"Now, these friends of yours are going to take you off to that World Cup thing you people watch, and I've given them joint guardianship with me and Petunia."

"Joint guardianship? Of what?"

"Of you, Harry. You need to grow up in your world, not ours. We'll always be there for you, as long as we live, but need to belong, and I've got a feeling you never will in this place."

Tears leaked down Harry's face. "I understand."

"Well, I guess this is it," Vernon said, getting to his feet, and reaching out to Harry. Harry stood, and they wrapped their arms around each other tightly. After a minute they separated, and Harry extended his hand to his uncle.

"Goodbye, Mr. Dursley. It's been a pleasure," he sniffed.

Vernon smiled sadly. "It's good to see you've picked up a few things off me over the years. Goodbye Mr. Potter. And good luck."

Harry's eye glistened once again. "You too, Uncle Vernon."

With that, he shut the case, picked it up, and walked slowly out the house.

Outside was the Weasleys' Ford Anglia, and Harry propped the case down in the boot, on top of his trunks and Hedwig's cage.

He shut the boot and opened the rear door, sliding in next to Ron. Hedwig, who had been resting on Ron's lap, nudged him gently.

"Looks like we're leaving, girl."

The engine revved into life, and the car drove slowly into the distance.

Harry looked back one last time. His uncle was stood in the frame of the front door, a proud look on his face. He gave Harry a small nod, before Harry turned the corner and out of sight.

"You make sure you get him, Harry," Vernon muttered. "For all of us."

* * *

The trip thus far in the car had been awkward, to say the least. There he had sat, with the rifle on his lap in its box. There he had wondered what had changed, and what had caused it. There he had sat, for the first time in his life, missing them. Missing the Dursleys. His _family_.

Dudley, with his recent banter. Vernon, with his recent tolerance. Petunia, for her recent kindness.

Harry sighed.

"So ..." Fred said, soon accompanied by his twin. "Who do you think will win the Quidditch League this season?"

The silence was broken and with it his melancholy. "Well," Harry said, a grin making its way onto his face. "I can bet that it won't be the Cannons!"

The rest of the car ride went by in a flash of verbal sparring, laughter, and japes until a house loomed into sight. That is if it could be described as a house. Like on his very first visit, Harry was stunned.

In all its glorious splendour, the Burrow appeared like magic. It still looked as if it could have once been a large stone pigpen, with more than a few extra rooms added on. In fact, he was convinced that it had grown. It still looked like an absolute death-trap, quite possibly because it _was_ a death-trap.

But he still loved it, and grinned again, his face splitting from ear to ear.

He loved it even more when Mrs. Weasley burst forth from the front door and pulled him into the tightest, warmest hug he had ever felt. He felt truly wanted. He felt at home. Behind her, he caught a glimpse of red hair and a certain shy girl, Ron's sister. Percy stumbled into the garden soon after and offered his hand pompously to him, which Harry took only slightly reluctantly. Ginny just glanced awkwardly at him and looked away just as quickly.

* * *

The tiny kitchen exploded with laughter. Harry looked around and saw that Ron and George were sitting at the scrubbed wooden table with two red-haired people that Harry had never seen before, though he knew immediately who they must be: Bill and Charlie, the two eldest Weasley brothers.

"How're you doing, Harry?" said the nearer of the two, grinning at him and holding out a large hand, which Harry shook, feeling calluses and blisters under his fingers. This had to be Charlie, who worked with dragons in Romania. Charlie was built like the twins, shorter and stockier than Percy and Ron, who were both long and lanky. He had a broad, good-natured face, which was weather-beaten and so freckly that he looked almost tanned; his arms were muscular, and one of them had a large, shiny burn on it.

Bill got to his feet, smiling, and also shook Harry's hand. Bill came as something of a surprise. Harry knew that he worked for the wizarding bank, Gringotts and that Bill had been Head Boy at Hogwarts; Harry had always imagined Bill to be an older version of Percy: fussy about rule-breaking and fond of bossing everyone around. However, Bill was — there was no other word for it — cool. He was tall, with long hair that he had tied back in a ponytail. He was wearing an earring with what looked like a fang dangling from it. Bill's clothes would not have looked out of place at a rock concert, except that Harry recognized his boots to be made, not of leather, but of dragon hide.

"So, how is Curse-Breaking? And Dragon-Keeping? They both sound bloody dangerous to me!"

He received a wry chuckle from the pair, who eyed each other and said, "You have no idea, kiddo."

* * *

He grunted. A trickle of water ran down his back, and the shower began to cleanse his dirty body. Harry sighed in relief. It was blissful. A few minutes later, he stepped out from the shower and wrapped his lower body in a towel. His hair dripped on the wooden floor of the bathroom, so he reached for another towel.

He dried his hair vigorously, but whenever he thought he had done, the moisture just seemed to return. Giving it up as a bad job, he ran his hand through his damp jet hair and smoothed it back as much as he could. He snorted. As if it would ever lie still!

Ah well. With that recent failure in mind, Harry made his way back to Ron's room to get changed. A pair of baggy jogging trousers and an equally droopy tank top - both of a disinteresting grey that made a typical English winter sky look appealing - later, Harry tentatively made his way downstairs, taking as much care as possible to avoid the squeaky steps. The kitchen was deserted. He looked around him just to make sure and headed outside into the grassy garden of the Burrow, with the small village of Ottery St. Catchpole in the distance.

A vague pink light spun around the orchard and the crops surrounding the house as he breathed in the cool, refreshing morning air. He set off on a light run around the house and inhaled the sparkling dew of the night, his feet pounding against the ground. If Dudley could do it, he could. However, within minutes, his lungs were full of fire and his legs burned with lactic acid. God almightly, he was unfit. "Fuck me sideways ..." Harry panted.

"I'd rather not, thanks," came an amused voice from behind, causing him to jump.

"But thanks for the offer nonethless," said an identical one, making him jump once again.

"Christ, could you not fucking do that please! I'm going to need a change of boxers at this rate!"

"And that, dear Harold, is why one should always go commando," the twins said snootily, a pair of perfectly twirled ginger moustaches appearing on each twin's upper lip. "After all, one never knows when one might get desperate."

Harry gaped. "How?"

The two winked. "Magic, Harry. Magic."

* * *

 **So, what do you think?**

 **I know I said I wouldn't write anything other than ' _Where Your Treasure Is_ ', but with this, I just couldn't help it. I do plan to continue this, as I do with ' _Where Your Treasure Is_ '.**

 **Anyway, thank you so much for reading - feedback is welcome, as it really helps fuel my writing.**

 **I hope you enjoyed, and - dare I say it - until next time ... bye!**


	2. Food

**A/N: This will hopefully be good enough for you. I've got to say, I was very eager to upload again, so I've pushed myself to complete this chapter as quickly as possible, which might explain the weird mood I've been in the last couple of days.**

* * *

As it turned out, the twins were up to mischief - surprise, surprise. But then, this was a good kind of mischief. A prank kind of mischief. One they had planned for a couple of hours, but had been at least a year in the making.

They were in their room, rummaging through boxes and boxes of material, most of it probably volatile. Naturally, Harry kept well back, resting not-so-idly in the doorway. After all, he had to be ready to make a run for it if necessary. And of course, anything was possible with the twins. Empty bottles and vials lay strewn across the floor, fireworks beside them.

"Where ... in Merlin's,"

"Flaccid foreskin,"

"Is it?"

The frustration had kicked in, and they threw things around the room in their urgent search.

"Maybe if I knew what you were looking for," Harry said sensibly. "I could help you find it."

A snort followed, and Harry's reflexes were called into serious question a second later as Fred (or maybe George) chucked something at him, almost hitting him in the face. "Alright, I get the gist!"

He inspected the object. A magazine. A rather ... raunchy one at that. His eyes widened drastically, and he slid the mag into his beltline at the back. They weren't getting that back. Harry smiled as he realised the twins hadn't seen it.

"Harry, you can keep it," one turned around, winking at him.

"Just don't leave it out for mum to find. If you do," the other paused.

"We're all buggered."

Harry blushed, nodding. The twins turned back to their sifting through and paid him no notice.

"So," a voice whispered next to Harry's ear, making him jump. "Hide it well."

He whipped his head around and saw Charlie's smirking face disappear downstairs towards the kitchen. "Sweet Jesus ..."

"That's it?"

The twins nodded solemnly from their sitting position on the floor.

"I just need to drink that potion, and ... what exactly happens? I gain muscle mass miraculously? My reflexes reap the rewards? My willy-"

The one on the left lifted his hand, shutting Harry up. "Now, as fascinating as those ideas might seem, no. It's nothing like that. We simply don't dare trying it again in case there are any side-effects to multiple doses."

"Um ..." Harry began to back away.

"Nah, we're having you on mate. Just pour it into Ron's food and enjoy the results."

"We sure will."

"After all, it's not every day ..."

* * *

"YOU TURNED ME BLOODY PURPLE! I LOOK LIKE A BEETROOT!" Ron raged, much to the amusement of the Weasley family. Harry, in particular, was struggling to contain his laughter.

"Now now, Ronald dear brother,"

"It's only temporary ... and anyway -"

The twins turned to look at Harry, and he couldn't contain it any longer. He let out a full-blown snort and burst into a cacophony of cackling. "It ... could have been," he sniggered, almost whispering. "Lockhart lilac."

If it were possible, Ron's ears tinged even darker, and he advanced menacingly on Harry, who jumped to his feet.

"Harry Potter you little-"

Harry turned around and slapped him lightly on the cheek, before taking flight up the stairs. "POTTER!"

The noise of the youngest male Weasley chasing him around the house echoed through the Burrow, before slowly subsiding.

They were knackered - completely out of breath. "For fuck's sake Harry. I'm absolutely done now. Morgana help me ..."

Harry pulled a certain little magazine out of his beltline. "This Morgana, by any chance?" he winked, pointing at the front cover, where a particularly buxom young witch was busy with a broomstick. "Can't say I blame you mate."

As Ron's face slowly turned back to normal, it became apparent that a blush had crept its way on unknown to the ginger. "I'm just pulling your leg. But I've been meaning to ask you something actually," Harry trailed off.

"What?"

"Well, you know Wood's left now?" this elicited a small nod from Ron. "Gryffindor'll be needing a new keeper and ... well ... maybe you could-"

"YES HARRY!"

Ron leapt up and down on his rickety bed, beaming from ear to ear. "You really think I can do it?"

"Well," Harry said. "You've got a big pair of boots to fill, but yeah; I reckon you can. Gotta start training, though, Ollie was built like a brick outhouse."

Ron shot him a blank look.

"Muggle saying," he sighed. "He was well-built. Strong. Fast. Muscular. Confident."

Ron nodded, his face reddening a little once again. "Well, yeah. I guess he was. I ... wasn't exactly looking, Harry."

Harry's eyes widened drastically. "Not like that you prat! I meant he worked out! He kept in shape." Harry shook his head in disbelief. "I can't - you thought I was-"

He cottoned on, finally. "You thought I was- I was- Seeking for the other team? REALLY?"

Ron dropped his head abashedly.

"Ron ... no. But I digress."

"Digress? Been spending too much time with Hermione?" Ron teased, recovering quickly.

Harry shot him a withering look. "Says the one who fancies her?"

Now Ron truly did blush. It began at the ears and spread to the cheeks bit by blotchy bit until soon his whole face resembled a tomato. His freckles seemed to be confused as well - they were torn between blending in with the rapid colour change or sticking out even further, and this only added to the effect. The ginger spluttered indignantly.

"You know, I don't really fancy Hermione," Ron protested at Harry's scoff. "I don't! I ... I like -" Ron paused, gathering every ounce of his courage. "I like Lavender. I like Parvati. Hermione's our best friend! Wouldn't be right."

Ron pulled a face.

"Oh, he does and all!" Harry burst into laughter. "RON FANCI-"

In a flash, Ron was on top of him and wrestled him to the ground. They collided with the floor one thump later, and Ron's hands made their way over Harry's mouth, stopping him from finishing his shouted sentence. "Mmph ..."

Harry's struggling subsided. Ron easily had at least three inches on him and probably a stone in weight too. A glint appeared, though, in his eyes. Parting his lips very slowly, Harry suddenly stuck his tongue out and licked Ron's hand.

The hand was retracted, and Ron hastily wiped it on his clothes. "What the fuck Harry?"

He chuckled. "All's fair in ..."

"Shut your mouth right now Potter," Ron warned him, wagging his finger at him. "Or you'll regret it."

Said Potter drew his finger in a zipping motion across his lips. "Not a word."

The two sat in silence for a few moments.

"So, er, what did you mean? Training?"

"Oh, nothing much," Harry said casually. "Just some ideas I got from Dudley." At Ron's incredulous look, he was eager to defend his reformed cousin. "Hey, he's not too bad actually! He's got much better - not so much of a colossal arsewipe, and he's lost a lot of weight. Did you see him at the house? Oh wait, no. He'd just gone out with Aunt Petunia. Well, basically, he's shifted his backside into gear, and he's playing rugby now. Sort of like football but you can tackle people with your arms."

Ron looked none the wiser.

"Very tough anyway. But yeah ... he's been hitting the gym, working out - he's never been better. And everyone knows a Keeper should be tough. I mean, look at that time when Slytherin hit Wood in the belly with a bludger, knocked him clean off his broom mid-match. Okay, bit hard to not fall off in that position, but the amount of tackles Wood had to make was through the roof. And, of course, all the girls will notice."

At this, Ron pursed his lips together, contemplating it. That last point certainly caught his attention. After all, what red-blooded young male wasn't drawn in by the idea of a multitude of beautiful women chasing after him? Realism never once came into it. And, to be fair, Ron had wanted to play professional Quidditch for nigh on all his life, no matter what position - but his preference was always Keeper.

Fred and George - Gryffindor's best Beaters in ages - they were an unstoppable team. Charlie - Gryffindor's ex-star Seeker - was offered a place on the England national side, but turned it down in favour of working at a dragon reserve in Romania. Ginny, he knew, wanted to be a Chaser - and she was pretty good at it when they played pick-up Quidditch in the orchard. Ron wanted to stand out. To be different. To be himself. In fact, he wanted to be captain at some point; he'd always been good at strategy, and he could follow manoeuvers better than most other fans. Okay, he followed the Chudley Cannons, but there's no accounting for taste.

So, he thought, vocalising the last of it. "Why not? What would we be doing?"

"Um ... hadn't thought that far ahead to be honest with you. Push ups, sit ups, running - that sort of stuff, you know?" Harry shrugged. "We could even do it with the rest of the team when we get back to Hogwarts. Make it part of practice sessions."

"We'd have to mention it to Angelina, of course," Ron said. "She's bound to be captain this year, with Wood gone."

"Speaking of Quidditch, who do you think'll win the World Cup? Ireland versus Bulgaria isn't?"

"Bulgaria! If Krum's on top form, Ireland won't stand a chance. He's the best seeker I've ever seen! The way he sweeps and dives, and ... and ..." Ron stopped his love-stricken rambling, his eyes wide in fear. "No offence, I mean - he's a world-class seeker. Not that you aren't! Not that you aren't! But ... he's ... well, he's ... three years older than you ... and, I know you're the youngest seeker at Hogwarts in a century ... but-"

"Ron, calm down!" Harry laughed. "I agree with you! If he's anything like how you and the Prophet describe him, then he's got to be."

Ron sighed in relief. "Then again, the Irish chasers are great! Troy, Mullet, Moran - they're the best. Outclass everyone, they do. Absolutely flattened Peru in the semis. You know, they've nearly scored as many points as every other team in the cup put together? Mental. And ours can't even beat Transylvania. And the other home nations are just as bad - Luxembourg and Uganda, I ask you! As if Scotland and Wales couldn't do better than that. But still, Bulgaria gonna win. They've got to. Doesn't mean I want 'em to, though. The Irish have a better overall team, and they're basically a home team, but Krum is just unbeatable."

Harry nodded, silence filling the air for a couple of seconds. "So, er, you up for a bit tomorrow morning? First thing?"

Ron looked at him apprehensively. "What time? 'Cause first thing means different things to different people. Just look at Mum and Dad," he said. "They get up at about five every morning. I usually lounge around in bed 'til at least eight or nine, then go down for breakfast."

At the mention of food, their stomachs rumbled in unison.

"Food?" Ron grunted, strangely Neanderthal-sounding.

Harry looked him in the eyes, and nodded once, grunting himself. "Food."

As one, the two of them rose and made their way swiftly downstairs, into the kitchen, before turning their head to each other upon seeing their now empty plates. They nearly wailed.

It turned out that Mr. Weasley had pranked them. He'd Disillusioned the food on their plates, and let the two stare in shock at the empty dishes, whimpering and moaning at regular intervals. But at long last, the charm wore off, and their faces lit up at the sight of their untouched (albeit lukewarm now) food.

"FOOD!"


	3. Friends

**Warning: There are a couple of suggestive sections to the latter part of this chapter. Nothing at all explicit, but if you object, then - hell, you've been warned.**

* * *

The cold air whipped him soundly in the face, its vicious sting colouring his cheeks a slowly reddening hue of pink. Howling, it was - as if a wolf at the moon and probably just as ferocious too. It batted him from side to side, smacking him to and fro. And yet he loved it. Loved the coolness of the breeze, the power of the wind, the clarity of breath. Then again, he wasn't exactly too fond of the fact that his lovely, clear breaths were so visible. It was absolutely freezing, so naturally they clouded the air. Thank Merlin he'd been smart enough to have worn several layers. It certainly kept him warmer than he would have been and he had Ron to credit with that idea. After all, it was that git that had opened the window in their room so early, the frigid air wafting strongly in and making the pair shiver frantically. He'd have to get him back for that later.

Shaking the thought from his mind, Harry cursed himself for not realising the big downside of so many layers. "I'm sweating my balls off."

Ron grunted just behind him, his footsteps echoing in the early morning quiet. The ginger was just as out-of-shape as Harry, and didn't have the advantage of the speed training that was a gang of wannabe thugs chasing him for the majority of his childhood, unlike the black-haired boy. Even Dudley's passive protection - knowing Harry was a wizard - hadn't prevented that. In fact, they were both surprised they'd managed to keep running for so long. They must have been out at least half an hour (by Ron's frequently stopping watch, that was). Precisely how long, they had no idea. Either way, neither wanted to stop just now.

The ground was hard, and small flecks of dirt littered the hem of Harry's jogging bottoms. The dull grey was no more interesting than before, only with a splash of extra dull. A side-dish, one might say. Harry ripped off one his jumpers - this time a faded black - and threw it over his shoulder.

"OI!" Ron cried indignantly. "That hit me in the face!"

Harry snorted, stumbling slightly on a lump in the grass. Still the sweat dripped down his torso and he rolled up his sleeves to compensate, allowing the fresh chill of the morning mist to fight back the heat. "Oh, that's cold."

"You don't bloody say," came the muffled reply from the Weasley.

His locks dangled in his eyes, and he swept them out of his green eyes, only to have them fall back in them again. Sometimes he hated his hair. Sure, he didn't have to bother styling it in the morning because no matter what he did it would stay the same. Still, it was bloody annoying and even painful if it bounced on the nose or in the eyes, as it had several times already. Thoroughly sick of it, he sighed. There was nothing he could do about it, so he might as well get on with it. Honestly, genetics could be a bitch sometimes. _Just look at Ron_ , he thought. He was a Weasley through and through, and now he was lanky as well, at least half a head taller than Harry.

"Hey Ron, you got any headbands or something back at the house?" he shouted over his back, instantly regretting the lost breath.

"Nah mate," the ginger panted back. "Only the small bow things that Bill puts in his ponytail."

Harry nodded. "Start circling back now?"

"Damn bloody right!"

The two of them rounded the tree line ahead to the nearby village of Ottery St. Catchpole, and doubled back on themselves, keeping the gradually decreasing pace as even as possible, trudging back to the now far-off Burrow. "Race you back," Harry coughed out.

"You're on."

And with that, the pair took off. Ron's longer legs helped him, but by now they had so much lactic acid burning inside them that it didn't make much of a difference and Harry slowly but surely reined him in, propelling the Potter further and further ahead, until all of a sudden, he led by about fifty yards.

The Burrow loomed and Harry skidded to a stop. The dew had wet the ground now, which had made any grip a little bit harder to come by. As Ron approached wearily, Harry stripped off another layer - now he was only wearing two long-sleeved tee-shirts and his jogging bottoms, as well as his ragged trainers. He dropped to the floor, hands at shoulder width apart and directly in line with his shoulders, before slowly lowering himself down to the glistening grass.

He kicked his feet backwards, then forwards again. Harry exploded up and repeated it again. Ron, meanwhile, began a set of push ups that soon had his forehead dripping. Wide, half, standard ... you name it, he did it. As time went on, the two got slower and slower, their breathing more laboured.

They switched into both doing sit ups, counting to fifty and then jumping back up again.

Shaking off their weary muscles, Harry and Ron began to grapple, clearly trying to throw each other to the floor. After a while, both of them were exhausted and each had been downed around a half-dozen times.

"Bugger me," Ron wheezed. "I'm knackered."

"Same," Harry grunted. "Working though. Never used to be able to do fifty."

Indeed, three weeks prior, Harry could have maybe ground out thirty repetitions of each exercise, at no more than a snail's pace for the majority. Now, he was doing better. They could both run further, run faster, do everything with more power.

That's not to say they were Adonis incarnate. Far from it. Harry was still rather thin and Ron still had a good deal of baby fat on his freckled face. But they had certainly improved.

"I still don't get why you're doing all the strength stuff Harry. You're a Seeker," Ron said wonderingly. "Surely you'd be better off skinnier and smaller. Why'd you want bulk?"

"I don't," said Harry. "But look at Krum. You saw him in the Prophet - he's hardly small like me and he's probably the best Seeker in the world right now, if not ever."

"What do you mean probably? He's amazing."

"Exactly." Harry brushed off the dampness from his clothes. "He's strong enough to pass as a Beater but he's still the fastest. I mean, yeah, aerodynamics come into it and all but how many matches have I won without being hit by something or someone, or having to pull off some mad stunt?"

Ron looked thoughtful.

"Doing this'll mean I won't get as tired as quickly and I'll be able to do more mad stunts."

Ron stared at him mockingly. "Come on, you know Hermione hates it when you pull mad stunts."

Harry lowered his head. "She knows I can't stop myself."

They stretched off in silence - it was essential if they didn't want their tested muscles to seize up after their tough exercise.

He led the way back into the Burrow through the silent kitchen. It was still too early for Mrs. Weasley to wake and make breakfast, so Harry and Ron tiptoed their way up the stairs and into their shared bedroom before flopping down on the mattresses. Despite how tempting it was to just go back to sleep and huddle under the covers, they were absolutely stinking. Ron got up and looked over at Harry, who was resting his head on his pillow. "You mind if I take first shower?"

Harry glanced back. "Nah, go for it mate."

"Cheers," Ron grinned, grabbing a towel from his wardrobe and his toothbrush and toothpaste. "Won't be long."

"Better not be," Harry joked. "Or I'll have to sweat all over you when you get back."

The door closed with a creak and Harry sighed.

Peace and quiet, at last. He stared up at the wooden ceiling, following the grain of every board before losing interest and allowing his mind to wander. _So, Hermione hates it when I play Quidditch so erratically? Explains why she always hugs me after a match._

A blush crept into his cheeks. Now that was a thought he wouldn't mind having more often. Or a feeling, for that matter. In fact, it gave him a rather nefarious idea. If she kept hugging him because he played dangerously, then maybe playing dangerously was the answer to his dilemma.

He hadn't told Ron his problem - he knew the ginger would only laugh. She was just so pretty. Her slightly bushy hair (which had tamed considerably over the last three years), her chocolate eyes, the pale porcelain of her skin ... _STOP THAT THOUGHT RIGHT THERE MISTER POTTER! Damn it Harry,_ he thought. _Control yourself._

How could he not reveal his feelings to her? But then, she'd been his best friend for about three years now. What if that just made it more awkward? What if she said no? What if she said yes? What would he do? What would they do?

And Ron. What would Ron think?

Harry shook his head clear, already messy hair flying everywhere. He jumped off his bed and smacked his head against the wall. "OW! Fuck! Why did I think that was a good idea?"

Naturally, in his undeniable genius, Harry had headbutted the wall to remove all of those distracting questions and thoughts. It - ever so surprisingly - hadn't really worked. All it had served to do was form a slight lump on Harry forehead, the bruise partially covering his scar. "Idiot ..." he mumbled.

He looked around the room that had in the last three weeks become his home. Clothes littered the floor in the corners, the odd book lying discretely amongst them. The walls were a vibrant orange and covered in posters; they too were of a sickening shade of orange - lurid, one might say. It was really quite disgusting. Ah well. It was his, it was Ron's. It was home from home. Of course, nothing could ever quite compare to Hogwarts - but the Burrow was close. The Weasley matriarch bustling around, fussing at any given moment, stuffing them all with food at every opportunity (not that Harry was complaining, of course); Mr. Weasley, the muggle-loving Ministry worker coming home from work with a mind full of curiosity and excitement; the twins, with their penchant for pranks and their mischievous ways (although that mischief was, naturally, managed); Charlie with his tales of dragons and foreign languages, of the reserve at which he worked, anecdotes of how he received gifts or scars; Bill and his flouncing ponytail commenting on the ingenuity of goblins and the beauties of magic; Percy away at work only to return and work again, upon the subject of cauldron bottom thickness (absolutely fascinating); Ron's easy-going humour and friendship; Ginny's shy looks and general avoidance - although she had matured, and she didn't seem all too shy now, actually.

It was wonderful. But sometimes, Harry wondered what it would be like, to be back with the Dursleys or wherever Sirius was. Presumably somewhere warm and tropical if the 'owls' he had received were any indication - they were like giant parrots! Yet, the next minute, it was thrown out of his mind. Soon, he'd be off to the Quidditch World Cup, to watch the final match. Bulgaria. Ireland. The clash of titans. How he wished Hermione were there. If she were, he doubted he'd change it for the world.

Maybe with his godfather thrown into the mix. After all, he'd only just found him. His dad's best friend, Sirius Black ... the man he thought wanted to kill him ... it felt good to have family.

He shook his head once again. What had happened to the Dursleys? I mean, sure, they'd never exactly been great family to him, nor had they really shown him any love. The most he could honestly say he received from any of them was Dudley's change. Piers Polkiss, Dudley biggest rival? They used to be best friends! They even enjoyed chasing Harry round the place when they were younger. Harry could remember that Piers was a vindictive little shit. Dudley never really did anything serious to Harry - he just wanted to fit in. Piers on the other hand ... kicks, punches, headbutts, bites; he'd do anything to make Harry's life hell. So what had changed? Surely it couldn't all be about Dudley and Piers falling out. Since when had Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia been friendly and nice to him.

He supposed it had started at the end of second year. Strange, that, really - considering the cake incident. It was like some evil influence had been removed from their presence.

Then again, once the Weasleys had rescued him in their flying Ford Anglia - yes, flying - painted baby blue of all colours, he reckoned the Dursleys must have had a good deal of opportunity to calm down and reflect on that cake incident and everything else that had happened between them.

Footsteps slowly sounded outside the door and it soon swung open, albeit sedately. Ron was busy towel-drying his hair and as a result didn't spare a glance at the room, Harry, where he was going ... hence why he didn't notice Harry's foot creep out in front of his own.

The ginger tripped in a cloud of moisture, his towel flying from his head and landing on the floor besides him. Arms and legs flailed everywhere in an attempt to regain balance. But to no avail.

CRASH!

"Potter!"

* * *

Warm water trickled through his hair and down his back, eyes closed to the drops of the shower. Steam filled the air and the wafting smell of soap reached his nostrils. His hands gently roamed over his chest and back before sweeping his soaking hair out of his eyes. His soapy hands lowered over his stomach, rubbing it gently, rising again to lather the arms. They dropped once again. His thoughts turned to Hermione. _Harry!_

All of a sudden the water turned cold, chilling his very spine and he gasped in shock. It was his own hand that had changed the temperature and Harry blushed despite the icy water. He turned the lever again (why the Weasleys had a muggle shower, he'd never know - probably at Mr. Weasley's insistence) and the water warmed. He washed off the rest of the soapy suds in complete, solemn silence.

The monotony of brushing his teeth and drying himself off followed. He glanced up at the mirror. He gasped again. No thoughts of Hermione this time though. No, he was surprised at himself.

His jaw had squared slightly and the line of his cheeks had sharpened. His skin was clear and smooth - but then, it always had been. Yet, for the first time in his life, his eyes, in all their emerald glory, _sparkled_. They shone; flames flickered and danced behind that veiled green hue, as if they had a life of their very own. Dare he say it, "Damn, I look good."

Unfortunately, his hair was as unruly as always. Nothing he could do about that, he knew. Damn those Potter genes. Then again, thank them as well. From what he'd heard, he had his dad to thank for everything but his eyes and even without them he (albeit with a hint of bias) would have to say he was a good looking chap.

"Oi, Harry!"

Ron's voice came through the closed door, three knocks preceding it. It startled him from his stupor. "Err, yeah? What?"

"Hermione'll be here any minute mate! Hurry up!"

Harry's green orbs widened. "Shit."

He rushed to put his clothes on - Ron's clothes really, but they fit him well enough. A simple tee-shirt was thrown over his head, some jeans that almost sent him flying to the floor as he struggled to put them on. Fumbling, he put his glasses on and (once he had realised that he'd need socks and shoes) made his way downstairs right on Ron's heel.

In seconds, the lanky Weasley was drawn into a hug from a bushy-haired menace by the name of Hermione. "Ron!" she squealed. "How've you been?"

Before a stammering Ron could answer, she detached from his hold. "Harry!"

She flew at him and enveloped him in a spine-crushing hug. Well, it would have been spine-crushing if Harry's chest wasn't quite so well cushioned by a pair soft pillowy lumps that Harry could have sworn weren't present last year. He stiffened in her grip. "Harry, you need to move your wand, it's poking me in the ribs," she said.

Ron snickered.

Harry blanched. His wand was upstairs.

* * *

 **A/N:** **Firstly, I'd like to show my appreciation for all the feedback you've given. It really means a lot to us fanfiction writers because (after all) we don't get paid for this. To me that is sort of payment in itself. It's certainly a reward.**

 **Secondly, I want to ask all of you a question. How would you feel if I tried writing longer chapters, maybe around the 5-10k word mark? Would you be for or against it? It would mean that chapters would take a little longer to write, but if that's what you want, then I'd be more than happy to do it.**

 **And, as always, thanks for reading.**


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